


Requiescere

by CassandraTheRed



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I'm only posting this to get it off my phone, M/M, drivel, it's been there two years, murder boyfriends, random sniping reference, utter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 23:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassandraTheRed/pseuds/CassandraTheRed
Summary: Sometimes, Sebastian wonders how he got here.





	Requiescere

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this fits or where it came from. I found it in my phone's notes, dated November 2016.

Sometimes Sebastian wonders how he got here.

Not literally, of course--when you're knocked up one morning by the most dangerous man in London (actually a bonny little Irishman with the voice of an angel and the smile of the very devil) and he wants to make use of the last skill you've got to your name, you don't exactly say no--but he still wonders, sometimes, how he'd got _here_ , from thousand-yard headshots and rooftop meetings between pub crawls to a bed in the most posh flat in town and a beautifully disheveled Jim Moriarty curled flat asleep against his chest.

It's his reward, he supposes, for being so useful, so good with a rifle; this evening's job had been tricky, but if anyone in Britain can headshot a stockbroker in the dark through both a ninth-story hotel window and the back of the male prostitute she'd been sharing the room with, it is Sebastian fucking Moran, thank you very much, and Jim had been so very, very _pleased_.

There's a tiny crimson smudge at one corner of Jim's mouth; it's all that's left of the lip paint Jim had been wearing when Sebastian had got home, one of his little whims, so painstakingly applied and so promptly kissed into oblivion. Sebastian suspects he's wearing most of the stuff himself now anyway, smeared across his mouth, kiss-printed over his neck and down his chest, but he's damned if he's going to get up to look, not when sleep is fuzzing his brain so enticingly and Jim is a solid soft-breathing warmth against his side just lulling him further....

"Love you, Jimmy." The words slip out, and abruptly Sebastian is wide-eyed with his breath half-held, because he'd never dare say that aloud when Jim was awake, because Jim will quite cheerfully make good on his threats to turn people who piss him off into shoes (or, at the least, send Sebastian to put a bullet through them from a safe and considerable distance), because they don't say _those_ words and the most dangerous man in London certainly does not answer to _Jimmy_ \--

"I heard that, Moran." The words are a sleep-warm exhalation across Sebastian's chest, the quirk of a lip against his sternum, the tickle of a long-lashed eye blinked slow against his collarbone. Sebastian holds his breath entire now, but Jim doesn't bite him in pique, doesn't reach to strangle him, doesn't even lift his dark head from the pillow he's made of Sebastian's shoulder; he just sighs, stretches a slim arm across Sebastian's torso, snuggles in even more closely. "Love you too, tiger. Now go to sleep."


End file.
